by Kirsty Ferry
‘No,’ she reiterated. ‘Not at all.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Newlyn Art Gallery, Cornwall, 1906
The exhibition displayed some outstanding work – everyone agreed. There were pictures from Harold Knight and Laura Knight and many of the others in the Newlyn group.
But one picture, in particular, caught his attention.
‘Excuse me!’ Julian approached the gallery owner and smiled. He held out his hand, and saw the man recoil a little from the scarring. It was fading now, but the flames had licked at his skin unforgivingly – if it hadn’t been for Heimdall appearing out of nowhere, grabbing him around the middle and pulling him bodily out of the place, he would have been dead for sure – not just burned.
Julian had travelled to Cornwall this summer; it was a good excuse to build on his work with the fisher folk and artists of Staithes, and his buyers agreed – but in reality, the draw of the place was too strong to ignore. Whilst he’d been recovering from the burns, he had thought of nothing but Lorelei, mourning the fact that, had he only been at that exhibition a few days earlier, he would have met her sooner and he would have loved her longer. And all the heartache would have been avoided, for both of them. He would have protected her with everything he possessed.
But now – now, he wondered if some other reason had brought him there. He hardly dared to hope; but he did.
‘Yes, Sir? Can I help?’ The owner hesitated a moment, then took his hand and shook it.
‘Aye. That painting there – the one of the beach and the rock in the cove. Can you tell me more about the artist?’
‘This one?’ The gallery owner walked over to a watercolour and pointed at it. A rock stood proud of the churning sea, waves crashing alongside it and spilling onto a beach. Storm clouds gathered in the sky, but in the corner was a depiction of a house, one of the windows lit up, warmly glowing against the gloom. Some careful strokes of the brush had depicted a couple of shadows on the rock, which may or may not have been two people standing closely together.
‘That’s it,’ said Julian. ‘That’s the very one.’
‘The artist is called Laura Cooper,’ replied the owner. ‘She’s one to watch.’ He nodded and studied the picture. ‘Comes from the north, but she’s been here a twelve-month or so now. Very highly regarded. This is an incredible piece.’
Julian gazed at the picture, his heart thumping, his mind transported back to last summer in Yorkshire. The summer where he had met, loved and lost Lorelei Scarsdale.
‘Laura Cooper. I don’t suppose you have an address for her? Anywhere I can find her?’
‘I do know where she lives, but I don’t think it’s at all correct for me to be telling you where she is.’
Julian nodded. ‘I understand.’ He looked away from the painting and at the man. He smiled and fixed him with a very direct look. ‘How much would it cost me to find out where she lives?’
‘Excuse me?’ exclaimed the man. ‘Are you attempting to bribe me?’
Julian laughed. ‘Aye. I am. Look – I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but this – this mess on my hands, on my arms – it’s because I tried to rescue her. I thought she was dying in a burning building. And I went in after her. But I didn’t reach her, and for this twelve-month you mentioned, I’ve thought she was dead.’
‘Sir!’ The gallery owner was astonished, but Julian could tell that the man, romantic Cornishman that he was, was drawn in by the story.
‘When I knew her, she was Lorelei Scarsdale. Lady Scarsdale. My name, if you’re interested, is Julian MacDonald Cooper.’
‘Cooper?’ The man stared at him. ‘MacDonald Cooper the photographer? But she’s calling herself Laura Cooper.’
‘It seems that she is,’ agreed Julian. ‘Intriguing, isn’t it? And, if it’s all the same to you, I’d really appreciate a chance to talk to her. Please.’
The gallery owner stared at Julian for a moment, and Julian could almost see the cogs whirring in his mind.
‘I’ll tell you what, Cooper,’ said the man slowly, his Cornish twang softening every word. ‘I don’t think I can be telling you where the lady lives, but if you take one of our catalogues, it has details of all our artists in the back. You will see, Sir, that it also advises where the studios are located, should anyone wish to contact the artist.’
Julian nodded. He took the catalogue the owner proffered and dug into his pocket to pay for it.
The owner shook his head. ‘On this occasion, I am happy to waive the fee, Sir. I wish you every success in your venture.’
‘Thank you.’ Julian smiled at the man, his heart pounding. All he wanted to do was rush out of that place and run to Laura Cooper’s studio. He flicked to the back page and scanned it for the details. He pointed at it and tapped it with his forefinger. ‘Can you—’
‘Out of the door and turn left, then keep going until you reach the bend in the road, then you’ll be amongst the cottages. You should be quite close to the studio then.’
‘Thank you, again. And you’re right …’ he looked at the picture. ‘It’s an incredible piece. I’m going to come back and buy it, I swear. But now – now, I have to go.’ He nodded and turned, hurrying out of the gallery and onto the street. As he had been instructed, he turned left and ran as fast as he could towards the old cottages.
Lorelei was drying her paintbrush and studying a seascape she had just completed. Fishing boats dotted the ocean, and the cliffs rose up on either side, directing the viewer’s eye to the far distant horizon. She didn’t know what was on that horizon – as always, it felt out of reach.
It wasn’t the most imaginative of compositions, but she was happy with seascapes and they seemed to be awfully popular. She had been working on the way the light dappled the waves and the motion of the water rolling onto the beach and the way the clouds scudded the sky. She was reasonably happy with it, anyway.
She turned and was laying the brush beside the palette of watercolours, when there was a knock at the studio door; an insistent knock. A knock that was more like someone hammering the door down; one that she could not ignore.
‘I’m coming!’ she shouted. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, revelling in the fact that she could wear it loose here and nobody would criticise her for it. Nobody ever asked any questions, either, which was an almighty blessing in itself. Her dress today was simple and white, belted with a sea-green sash and she tugged it straight to neaten herself up; some old habits died hard.
Lorelei flung the door open and stood staring at the man who stared back at her. She hung onto the doorframe, terrified the floor would slide from beneath her and she would crumple at his feet. He was there on her doorstep, his fist curled up, ready to knock one more time. His face was as dear and as handsome as she remembered, his dark hair longer, his brown eyes wide and unsure.
‘Lorelei.’
He didn’t need to say any more. Lorelei swept her gaze from the top of his head down his body and to his feet.
She looked again at his raised fist, and saw his other hand clutching a rolled-up brochure from the art gallery.
She saw the shiny, puckered red skin and, despite what she had witnessed at the Dower House, her heart twisted: ‘What happened?’ Her voice cracked and she was surprised she had even managed to formulate a phrase. He was here. He was here, in front of her.
‘There was a fire.’ His eyes burned into hers. ‘I tried to rescue the woman I had given my heart to. For a whole year, I thought she was dead – burned to ashes, just like her husband.’
Lorelei’s stomach churned. ‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes. There’s nothing left of her house but a shell. Nobody lives there anymore. Nobody knew where she had gone. Everyone thought she had been trapped. But I hoped. I never stopped hoping.’
Lorelei couldn’t move; she could barely even think. Images of that day flitted through her head. Images of the people on the beach kissing, the man holding the young woman closely. ‘But you were with someone
else. I saw you.’
‘Me? I wasn’t with anyone else!’ cried Julian, looking horrified. ‘I was waiting for you! It must have been Florrie. She was there with Archie, hanging around that bloody bathing hut, and I told them—’
‘Florrie?’ Lorelei burst out. ‘Florrie was there? She should have been in London! She should have …’ Her voice died away as she remembered the letter from Florrie she had put to one side; the hysterical outpourings of a young girl despairing of her place in Society. It might have been herself, once upon a time – only she, Lorelei, wanted to be someone in Society. Florrie, on the other hand, didn’t. She wanted to settle into matrimonial anonymity; marry a solicitor’s son and raise a brood of children as round and blonde and sturdy as butterballs, living happily in the countryside.
‘Yes. I left them together. Florrie had hurt herself and I was going to go for help, and then I saw the smoke. By the time I got to the Hall, it was like a furnace and I thought you were—’ His voice caught and he looked at his hand, flexing his fingers. ‘There was the fire, you see.’
‘Oh, Julian. I’m so sorry.’ She reached out and touched his hand, feeling once again the warmth and the energy of the man she had loved so deeply that summer; her summer visitor.
Her art and all the upset of the last few months slid into nothingness; wispy as the threads of clouds in her watercolour sky. ‘I should have waited. But Walter – Walter made me like that. He made me distrustful and jealous, and I couldn’t bear that anyone else should have you if I couldn’t. I should have stayed. I should have marched down to that beach and found out what was going on—’
Tears sprang into her eyes and she stopped speaking as his hand curled around hers and desire darkened his eyes. ‘I would never treat you like that. Never. I’m not Walter. And I’m yours for as long as I live. Please, Lorelei. Please don’t make me wait any longer. Sea Scarr is a shell – there’s nothing left except our cove and our beach and the Dower House. You still own it all – it’s still yours, for what any of it’s worth. We can go back there. Or we can stay here. Or we can go to Edinburgh. Or I can just walk away and you can go back to being Laura Cooper. But … you chose my name. That gives me hope. May I hope, my love?’
His voice was low, his eyes fixed on hers. He held her hand as if he would never let her go again.
Lorelei entwined her fingers more deeply within his. She felt the ripples of scars against her own skin and knew he had done it for her. He had risked his life for her. And she had abandoned him without questioning why. She had been wrong – so very, very wrong.
Lorelei leaned up to him tentatively, her lips parted.
Gently, she kissed him, and then she pulled away. ‘Come inside, Julian MacDonald Cooper,’ she whispered. ‘Come inside. And help me decide.’
And as he stepped into her little studio and the door shut behind them, the distant horizon was at last within her grasp.
Epilogue
The Cove, Present Day
Lissy had waved off her friends, packed up the rest of her belongings and was leaning on the balcony, staring out to sea, enjoying the resulting peace and quiet of her final evening in the Dower House.
‘Elisabetta.’ Stef walked up to her and stood beside her, mirroring her stance and looking across the water. ‘It is a beautiful evening. I shall be sorry to go, but it has been an incredible summer, has it not?’
‘It has, my love.’ Lissy removed her hand from the railing and rested it on Stef’s. He twisted his around, so their fingers were entwined and Lissy determined to remember that feeling of safety and security and rightness forever.
‘Look, bella, look!’ Stef suddenly leaned forward and pointed to something near the beach hut. ‘People. Strangers. In your cove! On your beach!’ He sounded amused, but Lissy didn’t take offence.
‘I see them,’ she said with a smile. ‘And do you know what, I’m feeling magnanimous, so I’m not even going to chase them away. They’re welcome to the place. It’s served us well, hasn’t it?’
‘It has,’ agreed Stef. ‘Yet I wonder who they are? Well – it is not my problem, as they say. My problem is this.’ He turned to face Lissy and lifted her hand to his lips. He brushed her skin with a kiss and Lissy shivered, despite the warmth of the late evening. ‘My problem is how to convince my Elisabetta that bambinos are not too bad after all – having spent a few weeks in the company of Grace, I am wondering whether my Elisabetta would ever be tempted to have a Grace of her own.’
Lissy laughed and shook her head. ‘One day. One day, when we decide we’ve had enough of our campervan and I start to miss the cuddles and the stickiness too much, then we’ll have one. I wouldn’t want to have a bambino with anyone but you, Stefano Ricci. And I never thought I’d hear myself say that.’
‘That is a very good answer,’ replied Stef with a grin. ‘Imagine how beautiful our children would be if they took after you!’
Lissy laughed and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him properly. ‘Very beautiful,’ she agreed. ‘But only if they take after you.’ She took one last look out at the cove and the couple who were, even now, standing hand in hand on the beach, gilded by the silver light of the moon.
A light breeze that Lissy couldn’t feel lifted the woman’s long, dark, wavy hair as she pointed out to sea. The man beside her, his hair equally dark, leaned towards her to speak; then he stood up, let go of her hand and raised something up towards the horizon. A camera, Lissy saw.
She narrowed her eyes and studied them a little more closely – the woman’s pale dress was long, floating around her ankles, a ribbon blowing around in the wind. Her sleeves were trimmed with more fluttering ribbons and her feet were bare on the sand. The man’s feet were bare too – his shirt was white, gleaming against the backdrop of the ocean, and his hair was too long, whipped up gently by the same breeze that lifted the woman’s curls. There were no footprints in the wet sand, where they stood, looking out to the horizon.
Lissy had a good idea who they were, and she felt nothing but peace and joy for them.
‘Goodbye Lorelei and Julian,’ she whispered, ‘and thank you.’
And good luck to them, wherever they chose to go.
It had been a beautiful evening and Lissy didn’t have long left in Staithes. So she was going to enjoy every moment she had there.
‘Isn’t it funny?’ she mused as she turned from the sea and began to lead Stef inside, ‘from here, the horizon doesn’t seem far, does it? Except I know, in reality, that it’s miles away.’
‘But we can still reach it,’ he answered, ‘It’s still ours.’
Lissy smiled. He was right. It had always been theirs; she had only needed to believe that they could reach it together.
And a little distance away, in the window of Sea Scarr Hall, a glint of moonlight caught the corner of the glass and glimmered for a brief second. The gleam was mirrored, just for a moment, in the upstairs window of the Dower House.
* The End *
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Thank You
Thank you for reading The Girl in the Photograph. I hope you enjoyed Lissy and Stefano’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Lissy has been a wonderfully head-strong character in my previous novels, Some Veil Did Fall and The Girl in the Painting, and I thought it was high time she had a book of her own – and so did she, apparently, because one day she danced straight out of her life and right onto my page, demanding I tell her story! So what could I do but oblige her?
All authors, as well as loving their characters, really value their readers. The road to publication is a magical one and seeing your book out there, being enjoyed by people like yourself, is a fantastic feeling. It’s even more special if people like you take the trouble to leave a review. It’s love
ly to hear what readers think and we all value their feedback.
If you have time therefore, something as simple as a note on a book review site such as Goodreads or indeed a comment on any online store would be hugely appreciated.
Please do feel free to contact me anytime. You can find my details under my author profile and I very much hope that you’ll enjoy my other books as well.
Happy reading, and again, a huge thank you!
Lots of love
Kirsty
xxx
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About the Author
Kirsty Ferry is from the North East of England and lives there with her husband and son. She won the English Heritage/Belsay Hall National Creative Writing competition in 2009 and has had articles and short stories published in The People’s Friend, The Weekly News, It’s Fate, Vintage Script, Ghost Voices and First Edition. Her work also appears in several anthologies, incorporating such diverse themes as vampires, crime, angels and more.
Kirsty loves writing ghostly mysteries and interweaving fact and fiction. The research is almost as much fun as writing the book itself, and if she can add a wonderful setting and a dollop of history, that’s even better.
Her day job involves sharing a building with an eclectic collection of ghosts, which can often prove rather interesting.
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